by Adam Hamdy
There was movement nearby and he saw a familiar face. Awut. The killer who’d rescued him from prison. The man with the black patch. The black patch.
Ziad looked down and saw one clinging to his shoulder. He remembered choking, struggling to breathe, and wondered whether the patch had somehow saved him. He was almost certain it was responsible for the dreamy detachment he was experiencing.
Awut walked to the doorway and leaned out of the dank old office that had been Ziad’s bedroom for the past few days, and the angry voices stopped. Ziad tracked a shadow that moved across the dirty frosted-glass panels that separated the office from the rest of the warehouse. The shape shifted and danced across the irregular panes until it became a person in the doorway. Elroy Lang, the only friend he’d had inside Al Aqarab.
Awut stepped outside the room and leaned against one of the glass panels, while Elroy approached Ziad and sat on the low army surplus cot.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
‘Out of it,’ Ziad rasped.
‘You saved your friend’s life,’ Elroy nodded towards Awut’s shadow. ‘He encountered a high dose of toxin that consumed the synthetic hormone far more rapidly than usual. If you hadn’t given him a new patch, he would have died.’
‘Toxin?’ Ziad asked. ‘Like in the prison? What does that have to do with these?’ He gestured at his own patch.
Elroy smiled, but it wasn’t a joyous expression. It was the look of a doctor about to break bad news. He stood and closed the office door, before returning to sit at the end of Ziad’s bed.
‘I never wanted this for you,’ Elroy said. ‘There was no need. We knew you’d be motivated to take revenge against the Salamovs. There was no call for any additional incentive.’
He hesitated.
‘If only you’d worn the gloves,’ he sighed. ‘But what’s done is done. You’re wearing the patch now, and that means you need to know what it does, and how it keeps you alive.’
Ziad listened, and each word was like a painful hammer blow. By the time Elroy was done, Ziad’s old life had been smashed and he’d been introduced to his new hellish existence and the terrible succubus that gripped his shoulder. He looked down at the patch and howled with anguish.
Chapter 86
Elroy Lang sighed. He felt sorry for the Egyptian-American boy lying on the tiny bunk, drenched in his own sweat and tears. Elroy had returned from Quingdao once the French spy had been dispatched to Paris and he was assured that Li Jun Xiao and David Song would be able to meet the demand he now had for their product. He’d arrived in Seattle to find their plan in disarray. According to the extensive media coverage of the attack on the Salam Islamic Centre, Deni Salamov’s base of operations, casualties were limited to fewer than twenty. Police were working on the theory the community centre had been the target of a racially motived terror attack, which threw a different complexion on what had happened at the Meals Seattle warehouse. Their friends in the police department were spreading misinformation to ensure the authorities and media stayed well away from the truth. But Deni Salamov would know, and according to their information, he and his son had survived the attack. He was alive and would undoubtedly be planning his revenge.
Elroy looked down at Ziad. He’d never heard of anyone taking the patch in these circumstances. Not by accident. They’d used the boy, and their manipulation of him was supposed to be suffering enough, but now he was dependent and tied to them for his survival, just like Narong Angsakul. The formidable Thai warrior had explained what had happened. He’d been exposed to a contact dose of XTX, which had rapidly depleted the parathyroid level of his patch, and when he and the others had returned to the warehouse, he’d been delirious and unable to warn Ziad against touching the replacement patch with his bare skin. The patch that had saved Awut’s life had cursed Ziad. The Thai, who didn’t often show his emotions, clearly felt some guilt.
Narong had been recruited into the Mujahedeen Patani to fight for the global caliphate and it should have been him chosen for the operation Pearce foiled in Islamabad, but his baby brother had persuaded the sheikhs to select him instead. Chatri Angsakul had gone and been killed by Scott Pearce, a man who’d initially been dismissed as a lucky adventurer, but who was now proving to be a serious irritation. He’d foiled their plans in Britain, and he and his associates were now doing their best to interfere in Seattle.
The camera in the house on Kenyon Street had caught Pearce planting a bug on Ziad’s car, and Narong had identified him and recounted their fight in the community centre. Pearce would have to be eliminated before he did any more harm, and Elroy knew just the man to do it.
Enraged and maddened by grief at the death of his brother, Narong had persuaded the sheikhs to let him talk to the man who bankrolled Mujahedeen Patani, which is when he’d been introduced to Elroy. Mujahedeen Patani was one of many groups Elroy was responsible for. Seeing the opportunity a dedicated warrior like Narong offered, Elroy had promised to help him track down his brother’s killer, and set him to work smuggling weapons through Thailand into Malaysia. As a sign of his commitment and loyalty, Elroy had demanded Narong take the patch, and the man hadn’t hesitated. He was loyal, driven by a single purpose and had proven himself in combat repeatedly. Every so often Elroy felt a pang of guilt at the deception he was perpetrating. He’d known the identity of Chatri Angsakul’s killer within hours of the attack, but whenever he was assailed by conscience, Elroy reminded himself of their higher purpose. Mujahedeen Patani, Black Thirteen, Red Wolves; all part of the great objective. The struggle would only be won through great suffering. And here at Elroy’s feet was the latest victim of their ambition.
Elroy stroked Ziad’s hair and the young man stirred. He looked up and for a moment his eyes were wild and unfocused. Then, gradually, he came round.
‘What happened?’ Ziad asked. His voice was feeble and croaky.
‘It’s OK,’ Elroy lied.
Three police officers had been shot outside the warehouse, and four of their colleagues had taken them to a friendly, discreet medical centre for treatment. Awut was standing watch beyond the frosted-glass doors, eager to leave in case Pearce or any of his people returned to finish the job. But Ziad hadn’t been in a fit state to move until now.
Ziad took a couple of deep breaths and wiped the tears from his eyes. He looked down at his shoulder and saw the black patch clinging to it.
Elroy registered the boy’s dismay. ‘It’s OK,’ he reiterated. ‘You’ll forget about it soon. As long as you’re careful, you’ll live to an old age.’
Ziad looked up at Elroy with anger in his eyes. ‘Is this what you’re bringing here?’ he asked.
Elroy didn’t respond.
‘This is the fentanyl,’ Ziad continued. ‘This is what we’re supplying Cresci with, isn’t it? This is what it’s all been about. Spreading death.’
His eyes were wild and his pupils were as large as poppy bulbs.
Elroy smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t think about that now. We need you to get on your feet. We have to leave.’
Ziad carried on as though Elroy hadn’t spoken. ‘I want them to have it.’ Tears started flooding down his cheeks. ‘Every single one of them. I want every American to feel this.’ His voice trembled with the force of his fury. ‘I want them all to share my joy.’
Chapter 87
Pearce was in his room at the New La Hacienda Motel, where he was using a cell phone he’d purchased from a twenty-four-hour convenience store on Lucille Street to call Seattle hospitals to see whether they’d admitted anyone matching Leila’s description. He was part way through a call when he heard movement outside and hung up. He grabbed a Glock G19 from an open flight case and moved to the door. He crept behind it as it opened, the street lamp in the car park casting the intruder’s shadow into the room. Pearce recognized it immediately.
‘Lyly,’ he said, startling Leila as he stepped out from behind the door.
Kyle Wollerton and Robert Clifton were with her.
‘Come in,’ Pearce told them, and once they were inside, he greeted Wollerton warmly. ‘Glad you made it out. What happened?’
Wollerton gave Clifton a cagey glance.
‘Really?’ Clifton challenged. ‘You think you can’t trust me after what I just did?’
‘What did he just do?’ Pearce asked.
‘Got us out of a jam,’ Wollerton replied.
Leila looked exhausted as she hobbled over to the desk and sat in the chair. ‘We need a proper debrief,’ she said, picking up a pad and pen. ‘We’ve each got pieces of this. Let’s see if we can put the puzzle together.’
Chapter 88
Brigitte Attali flinched when she woke to find a flight attendant leaning over her.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘I was trying to check your belt without waking you.’
Brigitte lifted her blanket and showed him the buckle.
‘Thanks. You’d better put your seat back up,’ he said before moving along the aisle.
Brigitte brought her seat up and squinted as blinds were raised throughout the cabin, flooding it with dazzling sunlight. The plane was diving and banking and she could see swollen grey clouds gathered over the city. She stretched and sat up straight. The elderly couple who’d been her neighbours all the way from Beijing caught her eye and smiled. She’d been an antisocial companion and had slept the entire flight. She’d missed her original connection and had been terrified the Red Wolves had discovered her subterfuge when Chinese border control had taken her aside for questioning. But it had been a routine spot check for coronavirus – maybe because she looked unwell? After two negative tests, they’d let her go. However, she’d missed her flight and had to wait another twenty-four hours for the next one, which had cut into the precious time the patch would keep her alive.
Echo had been right. Apart from a mild sensation that she was swaddled in a feel-good blanket, the effects of the fentanyl were now muted. Her heart skipped with momentary panic.
What if the synthetic hormone has also stopped working?
You’d already be dead, she told herself.
The plane touched down and Brigitte went through immigration, but her nerves didn’t really start playing up until the Homeland Security officer checked her declaration and waved her through customs. There was nothing stopping her now. She had no excuse not to make the call, but she was afraid they wouldn’t take it. She had to assume they knew what she’d done to Wollerton by now, and that they’d consider her a traitor.
She swallowed heavily and went through the sliding doors into the arrivals hall, which was packed with early morning travellers meeting their drivers and loved ones. She found a quiet spot beneath a high staircase, took her Ghostlink out of her holdall, and made the call.
Chapter 89
Pearce woke to the sound of the tri-tone coming from his Ghostlink. Wollerton stirred as Pearce reached for the device. Clifton was out cold, lying on the roll-away bed. Pearce grabbed the Ghostlink from the bedside table, slid out of bed and stepped over Wollerton, who had slept on the floor by the bathroom. No matter how much Pearce had insisted, the stubborn mule had refused to take the bed.
Wollerton had told them about what Brigitte had done in China and how angry he was not only at the betrayal, but at the ease with which he’d allowed himself to be tricked. Best case, she was working a con without telling him. Worst case, she’d sold him out.
Leila had filled them in on the corrupt Seattle police detective, Evan Hill, and the other uniforms that seemed to be on the payroll of whoever was pulling Hill’s strings.
Pearce had told them about Ziad Malek, Rasul, Essi and Deni Salamov and the two chemical attacks he’d survived, at least one of which had been carried out by Narong Angsakul. Leila had seen Narong at the disused bike repair shop where Clifton had rescued her and Wollerton, and they’d started working on other links between the players. Pearce had given Clifton a description of the gunman and woman he’d seen in the van outside the community centre, complete with a rundown of all the distinctive tattoos he could remember. Clifton had relayed the information to an NSA contact and was waiting to hear the results of their search.
Pearce shut the bathroom door, and answered the Ghostlink. There were only three other people in the world who had access to the communication system. One was asleep outside the bathroom and the second was in the neighbouring room.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘It’s me,’ Brigitte responded, her distinctive voice unmistakeable.
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m at the airport,’ she replied. ‘I need help, Scott. I need to talk to you alone.’
‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Because I can tell you exactly what this is all about.’
Chapter 90
Leila Nahum sat at her desk, which was covered in equipment and scraps of paper. She had been staring at her laptop for the past two minutes, wondering what to do with the secrets it had revealed.
She’d slept for a little over an hour before inspiration had struck and she’d accessed the Seattle Police Department network to run a search of the arrest records of the two police officers she’d killed.
Her hunch had been rewarded with a five-year-old arrest report for Eddie and Kirsty Fletcher, the leaders of a motorcycle gang that had once been known as the Reapers, but which had become part of an outfit called the Red Wolves a few years ago. The husband and wife duo had been arrested on suspicion of supplying opiates. Jared Lowe and Dean Ollander had assisted on the arrest, which had been led by Detective Evan Hill. Eddie and Kirsty’s mugshots and distinguishing marks matched the description of the people Pearce had seen in the van outside the community centre. Leila had checked the other officers Hill had worked with and had identified the three men Clifton had shot, and the four cops who’d turned up as she and Wollerton had followed the former NSA director to freedom.
She had been staring at the information, trying to figure out what to do. Detective Evan Hill appeared to be running a crew of corrupt cops, but that wasn’t what was fazing her. It was the photos he’d shown her of the day Artem Vasylyk had died. How could she tell Pearce there might be a link between the Red Wolves and Black Thirteen without confessing her role in the Ukrainian billionaire’s death?
A knock at the door robbed Leila of any further opportunity to procrastinate. She closed her laptop and got to her feet, leaning on the cheap motel furniture as she shuffled across the room. She picked up the pistol she’d placed on the windowsill and opened the door to find Pearce fully dressed.
‘Did I wake you?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘I’m going to the airport. Brigitte Attali’s here.’
Leila was surprised. ‘It could be a trap.’
‘At an airport? Not a good place for guns. You know that.’
‘What about an airborne toxin?’ Leila asked.
Pearce hesitated. ‘She says she knows why they’re doing this. I’ve got to take the risk.’
‘OK,’ Leila nodded. ‘But if you’re going to be dumb enough to walk into a trap, I’m dumb enough to come with you.’
‘She said I should come alone.’
‘I’ll stay out of your way,’ Leila said.
Pearce smiled wryly. ‘And if I refuse?’
‘I’ll get Wollerton,’ Leila replied. ‘I’m sure he’d want to come.’
Pearce pursed his lips.
‘It’ll give us a chance to talk,’ Leila said, reaching for her collapsible cane. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
Chapter 91
Pearce glanced at Leila, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze, and had her eyes fixed on the early morning traffic that was building up on the 405 Highway. The road was slick with rainwater, and heavy drops hammered the roof. Up ahead, vehicles were filtering to one lane to avoid an accident that involved half a dozen cars. Officers and paramedics were on the scene, and a couple of uniformed cops were directing traffic in their ponchos.
&nbs
p; ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Pearce asked. ‘I could have . . . you should have said something.’
Leila didn’t respond and Pearce tried to work through the implications of what he’d just learned. A group of corrupt Seattle police detectives was working with the leaders of a notorious biker gang to take over the Salamovs’ drug business, and a Thai assassin was killing people to ensure they succeeded. And then there was the death of Artem Vasylyk. How was a Seattle police detective even in a position to exploit something that had been kept secret from the Metropolitan Police? Leila had confessed to shooting Artem Vasylyk in London after discovering a sophisticated communications system in his office, and the two men she’d killed in self-defence seemed to be corrupt cops who worked for Evan Hill. The crooked detective had tried to use these things to intimidate her into revealing who she was working for. Why was he so interested in the identity of their employer? It had been a feature of the Black Thirteen investigation too. Robert Kemp and his unit had gone to great lengths to try to learn their client’s true identity. The connections across three continents suggested a conspiracy that went beyond the smuggling of fentanyl into America.
And as troubling as all the revelations were, Pearce was also worried about what they meant for his relationship with Leila. She hadn’t felt able to trust him with her role in Artem Vasylyk’s death, and had kept vital information from him because she’d been worried about how it might have been used against her. But if she didn’t trust him, how could he trust her? How could he be certain she wasn’t holding something else back?
‘I couldn’t, Scott,’ she said at last. ‘I just couldn’t.’
Pearce tried to separate the personal from the professional. Yes, he was hurt by her lack of trust, but the professional implications were far more serious. She’d withheld vital intelligence. The fact Artem Vasylyk was receiving communications from someone else pointed to a larger conspiracy, and if they’d had a chance to examine the comms machine Leila found in his office, they might have been able to discover the sender’s identity. According to Leila, the machine was now in GCHQ, being picked over by their analysts.